The scribbles that matter

Source: Google Images

I am a poet through and through,

Seeking poetry in all of Life's curves and edges.

I thrive on expression believing that-

It serves as a rickety bridge between

The intended, manifested and sometimes absurd happenstances.

My poems can be drizzles of feelings or hurricanes of emotions.

A thick white sleet that covers all the land in sight with burning, freezing ice.

A sling of rope that is sometimes a harness and sometimes, a noose.

But the frailty of expression is that it often requires an audience.

This sin of infirmity causes me to succumb to tears on some wintry mornings,

When my poems tell me stories of impending heartbreaks.

I'm left perplexed when they return distraught after being sent to do my articulate bidding-

Seeking a melancholic audience with me, the poet, their creator.

They question the dire, inane need of expressing myself flamboyantly,

Why I choose to turn life into a poem, sonnet, verse or rhapsody?

Perhaps some things are better left hidden in the curves of the scribbles across the pages,

Edges tainted by the tears that stain them.

Maybe sometimes life is better left unexpressed.

I sigh and tell them this is who I am,

A poet, and am unapologetic about it.

I overcome the vicissitudes of life-

And enhance its various celebrations with the aid of words.

For I know that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.